


Multifandom Prompts

by Jaye_Voy



Series: Prompt Ficlets [1]
Category: Comanche Moon (TV), The Bourne Supremacy (2004), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), Troy (2004), Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Adult Content, Explicit Language, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets based on reader prompts</p><p>1. Bourne Supremacy: Kirill, Rain<br/>2. Lord of the Rings: Eomer & Aragorn, Riding<br/>3. Comanche Moon: Woodrow F. Call, Blue Duck<br/>4. Hercules/Xena: Cupid God of War/Strife<br/>5. Lord of the Rings/Troy: Eomer/Hector<br/>6. Hercules/Xena: Cupid/Caesar<br/>7. Hercules/Xena: Cupid/Strife</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2008. Although there are some tweaks, the stories' contents (and their flaws) are mostly intact.

Bourne Supremacy prompt: Kirill, Rain

***

Kirill had accepted the tiny balcony of his hotel room as a necessary risk. He had not considered that it would become a temptation, one that he would succumb to so easily.

But India was far from frigid winds and the flat-eyed stares of gray men. Here, even the rain was warm, welcoming him as he stepped into the night's embrace, stripped bare and arms turned out, hands curled, beckoning. He felt each drop as a kiss and then a caress. Landing upon his skin and then sliding softly, slowly down to join its brethren in their descent to terra cotta tiles still radiating the day's heat.

He wondered if the American stood like this, somewhere in this lazy sprawl of a city. In a scratched-mud yard or on the steps of some shack, or perhaps on a balcony of his own. Bourne would be planes and shadows in the night, spangles caught by the spread of lashes. Gathered drops settling in the hollows of collarbone and navel, channeled down the center of chest and length of spine, along the shallow slant at the top of each strong thigh.

Kirill knew that Bourne would be, would never allow himself *not* to be, sleek muscle over solid bone. Warrior body formed and honed by a life that punished imperfection. And again, Kirill was tempted...to seek Bourne in the night, to run wet hands over wet skin and feel the drops yield to the slide of his palms as he learned, felt, touched...

His snort banished the fantasy with the drops clinging to the stubble on his upper lip. Such foolish thoughts belonged to the gangly youth who once knelt on faded blue cushions. Palms pressed to the panes to feel the lash of the rain against the windows as the wind flung close-hanging branches against the house. Snug and warm and filled with the dry scents of dust and charcoal and scattered papers, the subtle spices of chai rising with the steam from the glass waiting in its nest of gold filigree.

That boy had not been named Kirill. Had not yet learned the ways of the wolf...that prey was only meat, that mate and pack and purpose were dreams to be drowned in blood. The hunt for Bourne would wait until morning. Until the sun had cracked the land anew and proved again that none could evade its baleful glare.

Yes, the hunt could wait. Kirill brought his hands up, slid palms over close-shorn hair. Laced his fingers at the base of his skull, stretched his head back and turned his face up to the rain.

THE END


	2. Chapter 2

Lord of the Rings prompt: Eomer & Aragorn, Riding

***

The sun warm, wind sharp upon his face. Beat of hoofs upon the endless plain, green and brown and gold. Surge of the horse between his thighs, joy that flowed and filled and spilled in a laugh wild and unrestrained. He dropped the reins and spread his arms to gather all in his embrace.

This was Rohan.

In time Aragorn's young stallion slowed, dancing as it snorted and shook its head. He dropped a hand to his mount's neck, murmuring thanks to this marvelous gift.

He tensed not at another horse and rider close beside him. "Too long have you been locked in your city of stone," Éomer said, head tilted and the hint of a smile curving his lips as his fingers pulled at Firefoot's mane.

Those fingers then curled about Aragorn's forearm as the mirth in Éomer's face warmed to something more. "Tresan will miss the plains when you return to it. Promise me, Aragorn, you'll run him across the Pellenor yourself."

Éomer. Brother in arms turned brother in truth. Green and gold and brown. Heart as great as the plains.

"Aye," Aragorn answered, his own hand laid over Éomer's. For he loved Rohan.

And its king.

THE END


	3. Chapter 3

Comanche Moon prompt: Woodrow Call and Blue Duck 

***

Set after an early scene in "Comanche Moon", where Blue Duck takes a shot at Call while Call is getting ready to "paint the rocks". In "Dead Man's Walk", the prequel to "Comanche Moon", Woodrow Call earned the name "Gun in the Water" when he rose from a river to repel an attack, killing Blue Duck's half-brother. Call also beat up his commander and was sentenced to 100 lashes. No other man had ever survived the punishment.

***

The burn of the bullet crease in Blue Duck's side hurt less than his pride. Gun in the Water had been his! His to shoot, to kill...to claim the Ranger's scalp as a trophy.

But that was not to be. Even cold and distracted, Call had seen Blue Duck's approach. Shouted for aid even as he swung the Winchester off his shoulder and fired, almost sending Blue Duck to the place of spirits and bones.

And yet, Blue Duck smiled, even as he heated his blade in the fire to press against his wound. He would take any chance to bring an end to Gun in the Water's days, but what he truly wanted wasn't Call's death. Not so easy, so quick.

For it was said that Call was a man who could not be broken. That his back was scarred with stripes carved by his own people, 10 times the full measure of a man's hands. No other had known such and lived.

Blue Duck dreamed of having Gun in the Water in his power. He'd strip the man, bare skin moon-pale to the touch of his hand, his knife, a branch from the fire. Paint his own mark upon the Ranger in blood, sink into its sharp tang mixed with the smell of sweat and screams of pain that would last until his need was spent.

Until he spent himself within his captive, and after...fist buried in the short dark hair he'd arch the long throat back for the final stroke of his blade.

And then maybe those eyes that haunted him would finally show fear.

***

"I swear, Woodrow, it's got so's a man can't take a piss without some red devil tryin' to send him to his grave." Gus hopped and fluttered around Call like a hen whose chick skipped just clear of the fox's jaws, still hearin' the snap shut.

Call just let him fuss 'n fidget, Gus's eyes narrowed like they were tryin' to see past coat and vest and shirts to be sure Blue Duck hadn't done harm. Closed his own eyes, felt the press of Gus's hand at his hip, near the edge of the scars that were faded but not forgotten, the memory ten years gone.

Back then the press was a touch---woman-gentle as Gus'd salved and wrapped and tutted while makin' sure Call didn't meet his Maker a day before he was due.

Those were the days Call knew he'd never marry. 'Cause Woodrow Call was not one who'd ever lied, not to God nor man and he couldn't stand up before the preacher and say he'd cleave heart to heart to any woman who'd ever walked God's Earth.

When the hand dropped, he opened his eyes to see Gus lookin' down and away. Knew he'd hear talk of Clara before moonrise. As if he needed remindin'.

There were things a man just couldn't have, no two ways about it.

But that didn't stop the wantin'.

THE END


	4. Chapter 4

Hercules/Xena prompt: Cupid God of War/Strife  
Set in a "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" episode ("Stranger in a Strange Land") where Cupid is the God of War.

***

Strife fidgeted. He couldn't help it. Today was *the* day, one he'd waited just about forever for.

He'd been minion, toady, lackey, general whipping boy (though Thank Zeus not literally) for the God of War for so long he'd almost forgotten why he'd signed up for this good-for-nothing gig.

But of course the moment Cupid stalked into the temple, all Strife could think was "Oh, yeah, right." The bastard did it to him every time: The wings and the scowl and the blond and the muscles and the leather and the weapons and the whole "Fuck with me and *Die*" God of War vibe that had Strife caught between pissin' and creamin'---and ready to scream either way.

But then he couldn't fidget, couldn't even *blink* as Cupid went from a stalk to a saunter, hips rolling as he headed over to Strife. Cupid's leather pants were tight, but not near as tight as Strife's were feelin' right at that moment.

"So...you still wanna be my sidekick?" Cupid's scowl had shifted to a smirk. When he folded his arms Strife's eyes nearly popped as he watched the pecs and the biceps and he hoped he wasn't droolin' 'cause he couldn't get his jaw to come back up from the floor.

But then Strife remembered how he didn't wanna just be the skinny no-name doin' Cupid's dirty work. He crossed his own arms, but only got an eyebrow lift. He finally managed to pull his tongue back in and took a deep breath. "Yeah, but I want a godhood---and I'm not talkin' a pissant job title like God of Subtle Insults, either."

He didn't even see Cupid *move*. But suddenly Strife was leaned into a crescent moon with Cupid's one hand in his hair tuggin' his head back and the other on his chin wrenchin' his mouth open for Cupid's lips to clamp tight over his. Cupid sucked all the air outta Strife's body before Cupid sent a conquering tongue in and around and up and down and just about anywhere Cupid damn well pleased.

Strife saw stars, but maybe it was just the light reflectin' off all the shiny pointy things Cupid's temple was decorated with. He thought maybe he needed to breathe soon, but couldn't work up too much anxious as Cupid's teeth started gettin' in on the action.

Then Cupid's hand slid from Strife's jaw to squeeze his oh-so-fuckin'-hard cock through his now-way-too-tight pants. And all Strife could do was not-moan and thrust his hips and clutch at Cupid's arms and just come and come until he was shudderin' and all the stars blasted into those pretty Chin fireworks.

A sword's-edge gleam lit in Cupid's eyes as he pulled back and slowly licked his lips. For a moment his smirk turned knife-in-the-guts nasty, but then he leaned in and scraped his teeth slow from the corner of Strife's jaw up to his ear, breath battle-hot against it as Cupid murmured, "How about, I dunno, God of...Strife?"

Strife still hung limp in Cupid's hands, but he got enough of his scrambled head together to croak, "Deal."

THE END


	5. Chapter 5

Lord of the Rings/Troy prompt: Eomer/Hector

***

Was this Elysium? Hector rose from the embrace of furs to set bare feet firm upon soft grass, turning slowly as he surveyed this unfamiliar territory. Trees, slim-trunked and in full leaf, discussed the breeze in whispers as a nearby stream added its chatter to the songs of unseen birds. It was not the rolling sound of the waves he had known since before his birth, but it was...peaceful.

A flash of bright gold had him tensing, reaching for the sword that was not at his side. Instead a huntsman's knife hung from the belt of his kilt, and he spied bows and arrows just out of reach, brown leather of the quivers matching the sandals resting beside it. Along with strange garments he did not recognize.

The flare of light resolved into a tumble of golden locks adorning a muscled back. "Achilles?" Hector knew not how he felt at the sudden appearance of his enemy---his killer.

But as the man turned, Hector knew that this was not Agamemnon's champion. For this stranger, though well-formed and strongly built, had a face he had never glimpsed before. Full lips framed by a mustache and short beard, straight brows drawn into a puzzled frown above eyes as green and golden as the sunlit glade.

"Nay." The man spoke with a pleasing timbre and a hint of wonder as he stared at his own spread hands as if he didn't know his own flesh. "I am Éomer, a rider of the Mark---" Sharp gaze took in all that Hector was in a glance. "Called Rohan in the Southern lands."

Hector let his hand drift from the hilt of the knife, for his instincts told him this was no brigand. "I know it not, Éomer of Rohan, but I welcome you just the same. I am Hector of Troy."

Éomer nodded a greeting. He found the situation more than passing strange. Not since a toddler had he walked about in naught but a belted wrap of linen, and never in strange footwear that left toes and ankles vulnerable to all attack.

Yet he had not scrambled for the knife at his belt or the pile of---thank Bema---familiar gear not far from where this Hector stood. At first glance he had thought the man a Numénor, but Hector's eyes were as dark as tilled earth, with a matching beard and fall of curls framing his well-formed features. The combination was somehow...warmer...than the coloring that oft marked the elite of Gondor.

And Troy was no Southron realm. That much Éomer did know, from battling the forces of Umbar, Khand, and Harad throughout his long reign. So long...

He looked at his hands again, seeing anew the unmarred skin that denied the scores of years that had passed since the prime of his manhood. He shook his head, looking to his companion in this mystery. "Are we in Troy? I confess I understand not how I came to be in this place."

"No...we are not in Troy." Of that Hector was certain---the salt tang of every breath he'd known did not scent the air here. Wherever *here* may be. Yet despite the strangeness of his circumstances, he was not raging against the gods' caprice as he once might have done. Hector drifted closer to Éomer, chiding fingers that wanted to learn the texture of that golden mane. How could he have such thoughts when Andromache still owned his heart? "What do you remember?"

The frown deepened on Éomer's face, and Hector pondered rubbing his thumb over the groove that formed between Éomer's brows. But then the wonder returned. "I was an old, old man..." The bright, sudden blaze of Éomer's grin granted him a beauty that rivaled Apollo's. "Yet still the best horseman on the plains."

Éomer sighed. "I had lived long, and well. Guided my people as best I could in my cousin's stead. Been gifted with the love of Lothiriel---" From the way Éomer's voice caressed the name, Hector knew the lady still dwelled in Éomer's heart. "And children, my own and the generations that followed."

Those green-gold eyes held a ring of brown, when viewed this close. They captured Hector as surely as one of Medusa's snake-haired glances as Éomer said, "I was dying...I died. And then I was here...with you."

Éomer whirled and paced the confines of the glade, hands knotted behind his back as he sought to bring order to his thoughts. "It is said not even the Istari know the fate of men's souls. I had thought to be sent to the hall of my forefathers---"

He stopped short, dismay a sudden clench of his guts. "To see once more all those who had left me behind." His arms loosened as he blinked away the mist threatening his gaze as he stared at Hector, somehow not ashamed at the sight of pity---nay, sympathy---softening the dark brown eyes. "Why am I here? Have I failed in my duty, to be denied the company of those I have so long yearned to see once more?"

"Nay!" Hector had no means of knowing, yet he could not believe Éomer had fallen short of the gods' demands. He stepped forward and clasped comforting hands about Éomer's shoulders. "The Fates determine our course, and I cannot doubt that you sailed yours to its best end."

A sudden possibility entered his thoughts, and Hector wondered if Athena herself had whispered wisdom into his ear. "Perhaps it is that you are also waiting...for your Lothiriel?"

Éomer's body eased as the possibility washed across him. He found his own hands rising to cover Hector's upon him, pressed gratitude and ignored a shiver at the warmth and strength of Hector's grasp. Warrior's comfort had been denied him since he'd been granted command of an éored, so very long ago. "That may be. For more than threescore years Lothiriel has been at my side...it is fitting we take the next step together."

He stared into the dark eyes so close to his. "And as greatly as I wish to see her and my family again, I cannot want to pull Lothiriel from life a day sooner than the Valar decree." And he could not deny that Hector stirred him in ways he had thought long buried beneath duty and the love of his wife and queen.

Hector swallowed at the press of Éomer's palms against his own hands, at the feel of warm skin over a strong frame under his fingers. It had been so long since he'd touched...known the touch of another warrior. "My beloved Andromache had our babe at her breast when I left the mortal world. I can only hope her crossing is delayed until our son is grown strong and sure in his manhood."

Somehow he knew his family would survive, even if Troy did not. It was a comfort that he found eased the sting of his own failure in combat against the demi-god Achilles. All grief was fading from his thoughts the longer he spent in the presence of this enchanting warrior from another realm.

He slid one hand free to cup Éomer's jaw, thumb caressing the full lips that he ached to explore with his own. Hector took a breath. "Would you here dwell with me...until our women come to claim us for the next part of our journey?"

This time Éomer's smile was as slow and warm as sunrise. Then Éomer's arms wrapped around Hector's waist as he closed the distance to press lips to lips and seal this bargain between them.

And Hector knew, this was Elysium.

THE END


	6. Chapter 6

Hercules/Xena prompt: Cupid/Caesar

***

Caesar woke as he always did, fully alert between one breath and the next. In that instant he knew Fortuna's wheel had turned against him. He schooled his face to indifference, hoping the swift and heavy beat of the pulse in his neck did not betray his alarm.

Someone had stirred the braziers and lit the lamps, bestowing a golden glow upon the spacious tent. Likely that same someone had also stripped him, from the tickle of air, fur, and woolen blanket against every measure of his skin. He tilted his head far back as he tested the leather straps binding his wrists above his head. The ends were looped around a post stuck fast in the ground beyond his pallet.

"Don't cry out---I doubt you want your men to see you so...indisposed." The voice was smooth, pleasant, held no hint of malice that Caesar could detect. He looked down the length of bed and body and...gaped.

He'd never believed in the gods---despite the rumors he'd oft circulated of the favors they bestowed upon him. Deities were a useful notion---reverence, after all, could hold men to a course far easier than the lash, as all the world deemed piety a virtue.

But the figure before him could not be of anything but divine origin. Wings, white and full, rose above the breadth of muscled shoulders. The sheer perfection of face and form put all songs and tales to shame. For a moment Caesar held still in awe at the vision of Cupid come to life. Strong, golden as the memories of summer days, the glint of possibilities in hazel-green eyes matched by a smile to tempt the most sober of men, maidens, and matrons to sin.

Then the moment passed and Caesar was himself again. "Am I so fearsome a mortal that the son of Venus must truss me like an unruly slave before seeking an audience?"

The smile on the heart-shaped lips curved wickedness. "No...I thought the look would suit you." Cupid strode forward, clothes fading like mist as he sprawled his ease beside Caesar, one elbow crooked and palm supporting his head as his other hand settled over the blanket hiding Caesar's bare chest.

By force of will Caesar did not squirm under the weight of that hand. Although he could not prevent the way his body tightened in appreciation of the touch, in anticipation of the removal of the barrier between them. "What is your purpose here?"

"To satisfy my...curiosity." Cupid leaned closer, his breath the lightest caress against Caesar's ear. "Some say you are driven by cold ambition, but your passion has called me from Olympus itself."

His hand slid to Caesar's far side as Cupid shifted to brace himself. Long legs straddling Caesar's hips, wings unfolding and sliding forward to enclose them in a translucent cave. Caesar could feel his cock filling, pressing against the blanket in a vain attempt to greet the proud organ at the apex of Cupid's thighs.

Whatever reply he might have made died unspoken at the sudden gravity of Cupid's mien. "You had a choice, Gaius Julius Caesar, not long ago: The love Xena bore you or your passion for the power you crave." Cupid's hand rose once more, strangely enough to stroke the bangs from Caesar's brow. He found he could only nod, as though the weight of Cupid's stare held him as surely as the leather about his wrists.

"Wisely or not, you chose power..." Cupid mused. "For your passion to seize and hold control of Rome would not allow you to share, even with the love of your life."

That simple declaration struck deep, as Cupid's bolts were wont to do, and lodged in that place where regret dwelled. And yet the wound had been there long before Cupid's barb discovered it. Caesar had ignored it all this time, and could---would---continue to do so. "Have you come to chastise me for the sin of forsaking love?"

"No. You have punished yourself by banishing it from your life." Cupid sighed as he stretched full length upon Caesar, cupping Caesar's head in warm hands. "You have chosen passion, and I would have you know its full measure."

The blanket disappeared. Caesar gasped at the unhindered touch of skin upon skin, the slide of Cupid's legs parting Caesar's thighs and bringing them into full and glorious contact. Still, it was not in his nature to yield so easily. "Whether I will it or no?"

Caesar gasped again at the feel of Cupid's teeth against that traitorous pulse, the bite a pleasured pain that promised much. Cupid did not deign to leave off his exploration of Caesar's throat, simply murmuring, "You will find that like the Fates themselves, the gods pay little heed to the will of men."

***

Years hence, as Caesar heaved his last breaths upon the Senate floor, he recalled that wild night he was slave to passion's demands. But what came to him most strongly was the memory of the morning after: Cupid's final kiss, the gentlest brush of love upon Caesar's lips as his world faded not to black, but glowing white...

THE END


	7. Chapter 7

Hercules/Xena prompt: Cupid/Strife

***

Strife sighed and propped his chin on his folded arms on his bent knees, settlin' in. He wasn't plannin' on shiftin' anytime soon from the dappled shadows of the trees he was...yeah, OK, might as well admit it---*hiding* under. His mom was on a tear and, well, the better part of valor and all...

He heard them first. A high-pitched squeal followed by a deep rumble of laughter. When the voices came closer, he figured the curiosity wouldn't kill him so he rolled to a crouch and risked a glance around the trunk he'd been leanin' against.

Cupid he knew right off. There were a coupla winged gods around, but only one who combined extreme fuckability with golden-boy good looks and a laid-back "whatever, dude" easygoing personality. And didn't he look fuckin' *edible* in the leather pants-and-kilt thing. Though Strife could've done without the pants. Kilt, too, if he was bein' honest.

The real truth was, even with the breakup with Psyche and all, Cupid seemed absolutely fuckin' *perfect* and Strife would hate Cupid's guts if he didn't want the bastard so much.

And he did. Want Cupid, that is. It was kinda hard sometimes to keep his thoughts from wanderin' in Cupid's direction, when Strife didn't actually have somethin' specific to keep him occupied.

He certainly tried hard enough to scrub Blondie outta his skull, but the God of Love and Passion just kept poppin' up in his head like a dead fish in a pond. Only Cupid smelt much better. And probably looked super-hot when wet...

"Daaadeeee!" The excited scream sounded practically in Strife's ear, the shock knockin' him on his leather-clad butt in the mother of all "Oh, shit" moments. Taken out by a godling no taller than his knee.

Strife just laid there in the grass and watched the sun wink at him through the leaves. Some days it just didn't pay to get outta bed...

He blinked and changed his mind. His view was suddenly filled with Cupid, large as life. Kneelin' beside Strife and starin' down at him with a worried look on his face as he cuddled said godling to his chest. Cupid's very bare and, hmmm, very sculpted chest.

The godling pointed at Strife and flapped miniature wings. "Can I keep 'im, Daddy? You said I could keep somethin' from the woods...s'v'neeer, you said. You said---"

"I know what I said, Bliss," Cupid murmured, and Strife had to give him props for the calm, patient tone. And for not poppin' the kid one. "But you can't just pick up strange gods wherever you find them. It's not safe."

Who was *he* callin' strange? Strife bolted up, mouth open to blast Cupid with an earful if not a fuckin' handful of fireballs or somethin'. But then he caught the twinkle in Cupid's eyes and the barely-there hint of a grin. OK, then. "Yeah, kid, you don't know where I've been."

"And you haven't even been introduced," Cupid said with a nod, then shifted Bliss around to face Strife more fully. "Bliss, this is our cousin, Strife." Cupid kinda lifted Bliss toward Strife. "And Strife, this is my son, Bliss."

Strife looked at Cupid, then Bliss. Silly as it seemed, he reached out a hand and shook the tiny one that clung tight to his fingers. "Nice to meetcha, Bliss."

"Hello." Bliss's eyes were wide and solemn, but after a few moments he dropped Strife's hand and twisted around to look at Cupid again. "Can St'ife come on the picnic, Daddy? Pleeeeeeeeease..."

Cupid looked startled, then kinda ducked his head a little, and Strife would swear he saw a hint of pink on those cheeks as Cupid watched him from under long lashes. "Um, Strife, yeah. We---that is, Bliss an' I---we were kinda gonna have lunch out here since it was such a nice day. And, y'know, there's lots of food and you could, maybe, like, join us, and then, um, later, after Bliss is settled down for his nap, we could, sorta, talk or somethin'..."

Strife just stared, and Cupid musta got the wrong idea 'cause his head went down all the way as he just kinda petered out with a really quiet "Y'know, if you wanted to..."

"Yes!" Strife slapped his hand over his mouth after the shout, then giggled and hunched his shoulders. As Bliss clapped and squealed and then leaned forward to start pulling at the grass, Strife dropped his hand to his lap. "I mean, uh, yeah, OK, my schedule's kinda free..."

"Really?" And the who'd've-believed-it *hopeful* and kinda jazzed look on Cupid's face made Strife sit up straight again.

Maybe he wasn't the only one havin' thoughts... "Yeah, it's cool."

"Yeah, it's, yeah, cool." Cupid smiled at Strife, and Strife could feel his own cheeks heatin', just a little, as he smiled back.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism is treasured as a rare gift.


End file.
